


A Matter of Perspective

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (and won't unless it's between Sansa's legs tbh), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basically my being salty at the show lmao, F/M, Less show-verse and more book-verse, Petyr didn't die, Political cunnilingus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Sansa and Petyr talking politics just before Jon returns from dealing with the dragon queen. (divergent pre 08x01)





	A Matter of Perspective

**Author's Note:**

> [I’ve been in a writing funk for a while (some might say an eternity). My bad. I thought a call for prompts would help fire up the ol’ writing engines, but tbh I couldn't think of anything for a while. :// Eventually I stumbled into something (this thing which you’ll read below), made possible by the blatant ignorance and/or rewriting of much of the recent show.
> 
> So, thanks a bunch to @captainofthegreenpeas on tumblr for the sentence prompt! Hope y'all enjoy the very canon world where our boi is definitely alive! :) ]

 

              “Ah, I’ve never thought of it like that before.”

              Petyr  _ tsk _ ed, not bothering to look over at her. “And yet you should have. A dozen times, at the least.” He pierced a slice of pear with his dagger.

              Sansa pursed her lips. Petyr was right — he usually was. But it was too early in the morning to stroke his ego with  _ You’re right _ . Gods knew he was anticipating it, so Sansa nibbled at a piece of bread instead. And thought again of the last several months:

              Her half-brother Jon had led the Night’s Watch, and loathe as she was when the Northerners bellowed  _ King in the North _ , Sansa relented. Jon did well enough to survive the Wall, and well enough to organize the men there (they would have killed him otherwise). Let him wear the crown in public, let their people chant his name. Fine. The Boltons were dead, the North was united and healing. There was winter to deal with, not squabbles over power (she’d quite enough of that in her Lannister cage, thank you very much).

              She bit her tongue and let Jon wear the weight of the North. Sansa could do without the crown for a little while.

              Hardly any time passed before Jon announced his plan South, for dragonglass. The North was upset (as right they were). As jubilant crying  _ King! _ In the Great Hall, the smallfolk chided him, ale warming chilled fingers. They’d just retaken their stronghold. They’d just crowned a half-Stark as their king. They’d just begun to feel like the horrors of the past decade were nearing a close. Peace — that’s all anyone dreamt of nowadays.

              Sansa wasn’t wrong to call Jon out on his foolhardy plan. Go South, negotiate for some stones with a lady none of them knew and who could very well be as reckless as Cersei? Jon looked embarrassed (as right as he should feel). Sansa didn’t know this Targaryen, but gods did she know Cersei — and going alone asking for things without giving things in return would only earn Jon a fool’s death. Jon was perturbed, to say the least.

              “I know Cersei. What would make the Dragon Queen any less violent?” Sansa had asked. He looked away, his reply swallowed by the truth.

              “I never want the responsibility of it,” he finally huffed. “I’m your father’s bastard. They never should have crowned me..”

_ Then why did you let them? _ Admitting this  _ now _ , scant weeks later, because Sansa was calling him out, or because he knew Sansa was right? (“Both, I should imagine,” Petyr said the night after. “Being away from womenfolk that long up at the Wall makes a man forget how much wiser they aren’t.”)

              Then, as if to solidify his word as governing, Jon announced to all in attendance:  _ While I’m away, the North belongs to my sister Sansa _ . He looked down to her, his gaze saying  _ As it should have been _ .

              Well, Sansa couldn’t rush him out any faster.

              Running the North was like running the Vale, only the people were more set in their ways. They knew how to prepare for winter: sewing extra linings on coats, salting all their meats and pickling injured vegetables that would rot before surviving months of storage. All the North needed was a little push. A little kingly (or queenly) hand to guide them, to let them know they were right and they would be alright. Summer would shine again on Winterfell.

              Jon’s more-than-obvious disinterest in power lulled Sansa into believing the crown  _ was _ hers, was always hers. He wouldn’t want it back. She would make sure the North wouldn’t want Jon back, not when he fumbled and stumbled and came to her for help during his brief reign of power. He’d led a group of men, not a castle or the lands sworn to it. He hardly knew how to reply to the ravens.

              The Lady of Winterfell. It had a delightful ring to it, especially when her advisor drawled it out against her ear in tones that were meant to advise in matters not of the state.

_ The North is yours _ .               

              It sent a thrill through her, as heady as the feel of Petyr’s fingers roaming her skin. 

Sansa didn’t  _ want _ to give the crown back to Jon. 

              And Sansa sure as all the seven hells wasn’t going to give it back to some Southron foreigner.

              “It’s been weeks since your last report, Lord Baelish.” Sansa began, setting the chunk of bread down. She’d bitten off every last bit of honey, as close a thing she could get to lemon jam. “Last news you heard of the Targaryen in Essos, she was burning people alive and feeding them to her dragons.” Sansa wasn’t sure if the order mattered. In her mind of the girl was Cersei with paler skin, straight white hair, and purple eyes. It was an easy enough image. Sansa could see the Lion doing just that — scaring people, waving them off to be fed to her beasts the second they said something she didn’t like. The minute Joffrey rid her of her betrothal, into the dragon’s belly Sansa would have gone. She shuddered. “Jon can’t be so….senseless…”

              “Therein lies your failings, Lady Sansa,” Petyr began, tossing his blade into his other hand to take hers. The guards outside were privy only to their words muffled through the thick oak door. And high up in the Great Keep, only gods were privy to the rest, especially come nightfall. “You cannot dismiss something  _ senseless _ or  _ ridiculous _ , even if it seems nothing more than that. I thought I made that clear enough back at the Eyrie. Even the most implausible of things — or the most ridiculous — could be brought to life with just enough reckless foolishness.”

              Like a wanted-for-dead Northern princess, shedding her furred coat for a pair of bronzed wings. 

              Or like a ruthless madman screaming for mercy at the jaws of his own beasts.

              Or like the  _ actual dead _ . 

              (Of all the things from stories she and her siblings reveled in, why did  _ that  _ have to be the one to be true?)

              Instead it was writ clear as day on the scroll in her hands. She was Lady of Winterfell (not quite de facto Stark, for Bran was alive. He had little desire to run the castle, cooped up in the godswood most days and nights. Sansa kept a basket of furs by the weirwood tree should he ever get cold). And as Lady, all missives were brought to her immediately, even if they were unmarked of sigil and came during her early morning council meetings (should the guards have any concerns about the meetings taking place in her chambers, or with only the Lord Baelish, they said nothing). 

_ Returning with dragons. Should arrive by the full moon. Jon. _

              Not _dragonglass_. The weapon he promised was the key to defending them from the horrors beyond the wall. Nor an _army_ _of soldiers_. Trained and prepared for the harsh winter coming, and equipped with the elusive dragonglass to save them until winter’s end (for which Sansa could only hope they brought carts and livestock with them. There was enough store for Winterfell and Wintertown and straggling refugees, but more than that? The Boltons cared little for the castle and the fields. Sometimes Sansa saw bloodstains where shadows weren’t, and hoped her fruits weren’t grown in crimson). 

              But  _ dragons _ . 

              Dragons. Real, living, fire-breathing monsters. 

              Rumors of the lost Targaryen reached Westeros long before, when Sansa was still captive beneath Joffrey’s and Cersei’s claws. Smallfolk talked often, and theorized more so. Sometimes they didn’t bother keeping quiet of rumors that the Dragon Lady would rip the Lannisters to shreds. Joffrey wouldn’t have made much a snack to a dragon, though perhaps a more gallant end than dying at his own wedding by a  _ woman’s weapon _ .

              (Even if the death was instigated by a man). 

              Sansa ran her free thumb over the letters:  _ d-r-a-g-o-n-s. _

              And the full moon was tomorrow night.

              The parchment smelled of dust and salt. It’s seal, she realized after having broken it, had the loose curls of a dragon with three heads, as though someone hastily drew it in the hot wax. 

              “But…” Sansa stared out the narrow window. Trees stood proud not a mile from Winterfell's walls. The castle’s own natural army of soldiers, prepared to brave the harshest snows and stand tall once the stones come crumbling down centuries from now. Snow dusted their branches. 

              Sansa nearly forgot what it felt like standing in the center of a forest, sunlight barely scraping through the canopy above in pinholes, casting stars on the shadowed floor The trees in the Eyrie were minute compared to any of the ones they passed riding North, and all of those were dwarfed by the centuries the trees in the Wolfswood had. 

              Their train round near to the wood to avoid the Kingsroad. Sansa ordered her coachman to drive them to the edge, Petyr bringing a small group of knights with them (just in case). 

              Her feet were sure when they landed on the snow-dusted grass. Sansa breathed deep, twirling faster than her cloak could follow. It smelled of all the peaceful afternoons they took riding through the woods. Of fires warming their rooms, and of the praises Septa Mordane hailed upon her when she proved to be the model of a proper young lady. 

              It smelled like how her father used to, a scent she’d forgotten when they freed his head from his shoulders so many years ago.

              She stopped spinning but the world didn’t. 

              It smelled of home. A home but a grey smudge of towers off in the distance. She reached for it, grabbed it, and pulled it into her chest.

              The trees watched her, and she swore they sighed in relief when they realized what Sansa meant to do. 

              Trees were her constant witness. Like the young trees lining the Red Keeps’ godswood, watching as Ser Dontos gave her the weapon to kill Joffrey, and then skirted her free of the city. Like the narrow trees sitting the Eyrie's godswood, watching the first — of many — kisses Petyr snuck from her. 

              (And the first of many Sansa stole back.) 

              She wasn’t sure where her thoughts were leading. There’d been so much since fleeing King’s Landing, so much since coming back home. Back then, there were plenty of doubts in her mind the minute Petyr sat her upon his lap all those moons ago, counting his plan on her fingers with only the faintest scent of wine on his breath. He'd been drinking that evening, waiting for his  _ doting daughter  _ to greet him at the base of the Eyrie. She could taste it on his lips. The wines he drank were sweeter than the ales Harry imbibed. It never was the same kissing her late husband; the taste was always off.

              “But... ?” Petyr prompted, stroking his thumb across the back of her hand to lead her away from her thoughts.

              Sansa shook her head, the Eyrie fading away into Winterfell. The roaring fire warmed her, yet a chill settled along her spine. “But Jon wouldn't… It's just… Bending the knee to a woman who claims herself the lost and rightful queen of the Seven Realms...” There were rules to thrones. Jaime Lannister slaying his own king meant the Targaryens had no more control of the Iron Throne than Sansa had. She'd have to kill Cersei, and Tommen, and Jaime, and every other living Lannister — or they surrendered, a thought unlikely given how tightly they tried to hold on to it — before she could claim it for her own. 

              The lost-and-found Dragon Queen meant only that Robert hadn't been as thorough as he'd thought. 

              Sansa said as much, and Petyr chuckled. “Some people — Cersei, for example — think what's theirs is and always will be theirs. Doubtless, whatever advisors the Targaryen had in Essos told her the same.” There was always something about Petyr whenever they talked politics; like a mask half worn, he was the genial man who talked his way into the King's council, and he was the wicked man who asked his once-bastard-daughter for kisses whenever they were alone in the same room. “Being fed a hearty diet of  _ The throne is yours, waiting for your return  _ would turn anyone mad for power. Stories do that to people.”

              Petyr's fingers trailed slowly up her arm as he continued. “Jon initially let them place the crown on his head instead of deferring it to yours.” A fact that Petyr was endlessly bitter about (more so than Sansa. Petyr would weld it to her head if he could, finding it always fit there perfectly). 

              “Yes.” She felt its weight, metaphorically. 

              “And would you return it?”

              “No.” Her answer was quick, and quiet enough the guards eavesdropping mightn't hear. 

              “Then you've nothing to fear, sweetling. The problem is Jon's should he try to wrench power back from a lady who's looking out for her people. The smallfolk wouldn't want to lose what growing peace you've brought them, and Jon would be more than foolish to try.”               

              Sansa adjusted her hair, as though the crown were sitting there right now and it sighed in relief at Petyr's words.  _ This is mine.  _

              “A wonder he hasn’t been run through yet,” he added. “Though, the thick skin of male Starks has proven difficult to pierce.” Petyr tugged her arm. Sansa rose, allowing him to pull her onto his lap. She was taller now, having to look down at him from such a position, but far less afraid. Petyr leant in to kiss the top of her collarbone, her moving having exposed it for his endless consumption. “Now, women Starks, however… They seem much easier to pierce if one knows the way.”

              Sansa let his mouth trail along to the join of her neck, shifting her dressing gown away to reveal more skin. His lips were soft, bites too gentle to leave marks but rough enough they sent shivers through her body. Oh, if only their days and nights could be filled with nothing but this. Of enjoying the feel of each other, exploring every inch of skin and which of those inches made moans catch.

              Their travel up from the Vale was close enough they had to such peace. Sansa found herself missing it: clomping of hoofs and turning cartwheels drowned out pants and moans. All else was waved off with  _ The lady is sick from the wheelhouse motion, ‘tis all _ . 

              Not everyone was convinced, but they said nothing of the truth. Pride and gold went a long way to shut lips. Oh, and women. They had a war to fight at journey's end, and Petyr cared little where their knights planted their swords come nightfall so long as they were back in the train North come daybreak (if only because Petyr would pay the women handsomely before they left, inquiring which of the men were dissatisfied or overly rough).

              Sansa let Petyr’s hands wind down her back now, knowing her body far better than even Sansa knew. He worked knots free from her shoulder blades, and dragged a nail down the line of her spine sending shivers racing to her core. His mouth reached her shoulder, and she felt the growing mark he'd left last night. Neck, face, and arms were tempting fate to be caught; the rest Petyr took as fair game to claim her. 

              Unfortunately, there were more pressing issues to deal with.

              “And should Jon  _ have _ fallen for her?” Sansa said, her words only a little breathless. A horrible image of Jon and Targaryen-Cersei filled Sansa’s mind, them doing just this — and more. And Jon {black amore clouding his dark eyes) proclaiming his love for her on bended knee.  _ I will die for you _ , his dream self shouted, not caring who or what was listening.  _ You needs only say the word and I am yours to command _ .

              It was hilarious, and awful, and just enough silly. But she couldn’t dismiss it, because this damned missive (a little crumpled when Petyr's wandering hand slipped beneath gown to grope her breasts) meant it was all too possible.

              How else could Jon have secured a tempestuous queen who had dragons at her beck and call? Winterfell had little to offer in terms of riches or crops or people. The Boltons saw to that. 

              Petyr pulled back enough to answer her. “She’s reported to be beautiful by Westerosi spies, and a frightful ghost by Essosi.” His voice was bored, as though he had more important matters to attend to. Like removing his hand from pinching her nipples hard to hitch up her gown (with both hands, at some point having dropped his dagger), relishing in the feel of her smooth legs along the way. It wasn’t long ago they were wrapped around him.

              “Jon is half-Stark.” 

              “Hm, so your father says. In which case he would find her at least half-beautiful. Less could be said of whores.” 

              Sansa pulled back slightly, her hand on his to stop their journey. “What do you mean by  _ as my father says _ . Are you doubting he sired him?”

              “I said nothing of the sort, Lady Sansa.” Petyr lifted her just enough to wrench the gown free from her legs, setting her bare ass back down on his lap.

              “Then why mention it at all?”

              “Ridiculous and foolish possibilities, remember?” He ran his fingers up and down the outside of her thighs, digging his nails in just enough to leave marks that would fade on the hour. “Your father was an honorable man, there is no doubt of that. He wore it day in and day out, as though he couldn't find the clasp to disrobe it. Or perhaps hadn't wanted to. But war is chaos and confusion and death to those who fight it, and doubtful Lord Eddard went bashing in Lions’ skulls carrying a child in one hand and sword in the other.” He chuckled at the image. “Whoever the mother is — or was — there's no saying the child she had with your father was the same child he retrieved on his march back home.”

              Petyr pulled her forward until her hips collided with his, and Sansa could not mistake the growing bulge beneath his pants as anything else. Her body moved on its own as her mind tried to comprehend what Petyr was alluding to. 

              That Jon wasn't  _ Jon _ . 

              Not in blood, perhaps. He would still be the boy she grew up with. He would still be the bastard Catelyn tried to forget. And he would still be the man that led a band of ragtag wildlings and Night's Watch to retake Winterfell along with her knights and the remaining Baratheon men. 

              But Petyr's words meant...something. Or nothing. 

              It was getting more and more difficult to think with each rock of her hips.

              “Jon is still Jon, a bastard of my father or not.” He  _ was,  _ though. Sansa just knew it. Jon looked too much the spitting image of Ned to proclaim otherwise. 

              “And acts the part, too.”

              Sansa ignored him this time. “Jon would find her beautiful. He  _ might  _ pledge himself to her. Ask for the supply of dragonglass in return for...” She paused. Not because she was thinking the next step, but because she wished she hadn’t. The idea was horrible enough, that saying it aloud only meant that it  _ could  _ be true. And Sansa wanted it to be true as much as she wanted to remain a betrothed woman to a psychopath. 

              But Petyr knew all her unsaid words. He knew her well, too well, that Sansa was glad he was hopelessly enamored with her. The havoc he could wreak  _ against her  _ had he not wanted to have her. 

              “The North isn't his to give.” Petyr shifted his hips, earning a caught breath that turned his smile wicked. “The crown is yours, the North is yours. Jon has nothing to bargain with other than himself or his cock. If he thinks he's worth more than all the North and you, he should find a more achievable confidence.”

              “Perhaps—" Petyr shunted against her spread hips, stunting her thoughts. She’d admonish him if she could remember where it was her thoughts were heading. 

              Sansa blinked. She could feel Petyr's warm breath tickling her half-exposed chest, and his fingers working circles against the meat of her ass. And, of course, his cock, hard and hot with only a layer of fabric separating them. It didn't do much. 

              “However, that's the  _ other  _ most important rule I thought I bestowed upon you,” he said, leaning in to her shoulder, nipping at flesh. 

              Sansa stared down at the top of his head, his gentle curls a mess from their lovemaking last night. He felt her gaze, and like a string pulling him up, Petyr's eyes met hers. She found more comfort in the darkness engulfing his mossy eyes than in the growing shadows of the army marching towards Winterfell. They were naught a days’ ride away.  _ And where are the dragons? _ she wondered.

              His tongue lapped over the growing red mark he’d made. “Men too often find their judgement impaired should their manhood find a warm sheath to settle in.” Sansa was too old — and too experienced, and currently straddling him practically naked — to blush at Petyr's words. A fact he told her time and again, made true by actions rather than sentences. Such as jerking his hips up, brushing against her slit. Sansa gasped. 

              “And apparently many women, too,” he added, reaching his mouth up to drag his tongue down the line of her jaw. Sansa shivered. 

              Petyr continued. “Raised by the honorable Ned Stark, your brother isn’t the sort of man to force himself on a woman. But a Targaryen, as brutish as they are, might take Jon for concubine.”

              Sansa set her hands on his chest, pushing away. Not off of him (this position was as familiar in talking politics as it was in taking his length). “She's using him?” The idea surprised Sansa. And then it didn't. That lady came from the other side of the world with three dragons to reclaim a throne that no longer belonged to her. Declaring Jon as her… well, as  _ hers _ , seemed tame enough. 

              Sansa tried to place herself in Jon's head. Besides beauty, what else would a wild and determined Targaryen bring for the North? She had no experience governing Westerosi, she had an army of Unsullied at her beck and call, she had— “What if he is using her for her dragons? If he offered himself — willingly or not — for them instead of dragonglass?”                

              Petyr gave her a too-familiar look. “And you think Jon is wise enough to know how to use someone?”

              No.

              He was wise enough to know when people were upset. And his solution — at least when they were younger — was to run away. Hide somewhere.

              It was a pity Petyr couldn’t have gone in Jon’s stead; he could woo anyone, even lost Targaryen princesses.

              Except Sansa didn’t want to part with Petyr. He left often during their time at the Eyrie, though that was to ensure he had the Vale eating out of his hands (and the Vale thinking instead Petyr was eating out of theirs). And the most they had done then were chaste-enough touches and kisses. Now, Petyr having gone to White Harbor shortly after they arrived was awful enough. A few weeks and Sansa was jumping at each creak of the gate, praying to see a familiar man riding through. Her breath fell out in a single, large huff whenever it was a delivery of grain or a hunter returning with a hook of fish. 

              She had dreams. Some nothing more than talking politics, as though he were still here. Some unsavory to the point she woke up panting with her chest pressed down on the mattress and a familiar wetness between her legs.

              And some horrible. The great hall filled with people so thick light didn’t illuminate who they were. Sansa sat at the high table, Arya and Bran and Jon beside her. And Petyr — usually fond of the shadows, knowing especially well how little the North cared for Southroners after so much war and death — stood in the center of the hall, bright as day. Petyr looked surprised. And terrified. Not the feigned scared when the lords of the Vale interrogated him for murdering his wife. But true, unbidden fear. Sansa’s chest hurt. He spun around, hoping to find a familiar face. Stopping when he spied Sansa. “Please,” he whimpered, running and falling at her knees. Petyr never begged. And he never looked so small, so uncertain which pieces were going to move and where and how. “Sansa.” A sword was drawn from its sheath. Its tinny metal on metal echoing in the quiet hall. Footsteps, short and sure. Petyr didn't glance at his executioner, nor did Sansa. She couldn’t bear to look away. His voice cracked: “I've loved you, more than anyone—"

              Sansa awoke crying each time. 

              He did return, eventually, and the way her heart soared only showed how deep they both were: she had claws in his chest, and he hers. It was an effort not to run down and tackle him the moment he set foot off his horse, planting her lips to his and hoping the chill would freeze the two of them together for eternity. 

              She didn’t. Which was fine because they stayed up all night welcoming him home until even the embers snuffed out. 

              Sansa settled her hands in Petyr’s tangle of hair, pulling his face up enough to kiss him. His mouth, his chin, his jaw, working her way along the vein of his throat. She ate his pulse. His heart beat faster than he would ever admit. Sansa nudged fabric aside with her nose to trail a line of kisses along his neck, as though it were a spell to undo all her horrid nightmares. 

              So long as he was here — in Winterfell, and  _ alive _ — she never dreamt it.

              Petyr let her finish, pulling back enough that Sansa's hands fell to his shoulders. “Would you reckon they had bastard laws in Essos?”

              Sansa twirled a curl of his hair around her finger, pulling it slightly. “I'm not certain. Do they?”

              “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But she has been away from Westerosi society her whole life, save for her adviser she dismissed long before. And if you know not of the smaller laws across the sea, doubtful she would know ours.”

              He was getting somewhere, leading Sansa to the conclusion and hoping she would catch on before he finished. It was a game of sorts they played, one Sansa got better at with each round. “So she wouldn't know all of our laws…”

              “Not unless she reads the scrolls before she sets her dragons upon them.”

              And Jon went, along with Davos and a small retainer of soldiers. None of them meant anything in particular to the Targaryen. 

              Unless. 

              “He plans to lie. He  _ has  _ lied..”

              Petyr kissed her chin. “So he might. We won't know until they return on the morn.”

              “He said the North was his to trade.” Sansa moved to stand. She needed action, heading to the window, the bookcase, anywhere to keep herself from staying still. “To  _ give _ away, like it means nothing to him.” 

              “All of the North is yours, my lady. From sea to sea all the way to the Wall. All of the people, the land — yours, as Lady of Winterfell. Unless you give him the power to, he cannot trade what he does not have.”

              Sansa inhaled a long breath. “Do you think he means to?”

              “Give the North to a foreigner?” Petyr approached her, pretending to think on it along the way. “Can’t be the least intelligent move a Stark — half or not — has made.”

              “But the North isn’t his.”  _ It’s mine. _

              “Right you are, Lady Sansa.” He ran his hands up and down her arms, staving off a supposed chill (though the heating in the castle was better than the Eyrie’s, and Sansa was rarely cold in Petyr’s presence). “Although,” he began, drawing out a pause. “There is one thing you cannot claim entirely yours.”

              “What?” she replied, pulling her hands free. Her feet pressed against the floor, too, as though defending herself from some monster.  _ Dragons were monsters, and so would the lady controlling them. And the lady controlling Jon..? _

_ Unless Jon went along with her willingly… _

_ Only because he promised she can have Winterfell? The whole North? _

_ Or because he means to betray our family. Our father. _

_ Or... _

              Petyr, meanwhile, looked the opposite of her thoughts. “This, of course.” He slid a finger up her thigh, circling her cunt once before finding home inside her in one gentle press. Sansa bit her lip, her toes curling just as Petyr curled his finger inside her. His thumb joined, rubbing her clit in lazy motions. Like they had all the time in the world.

              Would that they did.

              “Petyr,” she began, plans of admonishing him whilst she was distraught with a thousand  _ what if’s _ and a million  _ why’s _ . Her cry, however, sounded far less annoyed than she planned, and far more wanton.

              Petyr reveled in it. “Yes, sweetling?” 

              He was distracting her. Like he did with riddles and promises of kisses should she answer them right, way back before she was Stark again. The typical sort of distraction that — in recent months — rarely stopped at a single finger.

              Petyr grazed her clit with his thumbnail, and Sansa wavered on her feet. She reached out for Petyr for leverage, but he stepped back too. Fine, so she moved away, stumbling into the bookcase behind her.

              His free arm snaked around her, catching her. “Careful, my lady.”

              “Must you always resort to  _ this _ during our councils?” Sansa said with a huff, freeing herself for the second time. There was no point in hiding her blushing face, or the way the sweet scents of their breakfast hanging in the air was quickly dissolving into the sharp taste of desire.

              “Yes,” he said plainly. There wasn’t a hint of shame on his face. There was, as usual, a wicked smile and a glint to his eyes. 

              “Come, sit my lady.” Petyr pulled out a chair for her, and Sansa reluctantly obeyed. Her foot tapped restlessly, and if it weren't for the knowledge what was going to happen next, she would have dressed and set a course for the godswood. Bran must know about the dragons, though he seldom said much unless someone went to him with questions. 

              Petyr didn't push the chair in, circling it instead and grabbing a slice of apple (seemingly at random, not bothering to look behind to the table). He brought it to her lips, gently tapping against her mouth for entrance. She opened, took it in one bite, licking the taste of it from his fingers. She tasted herself, too, from last night.

              “It is all a matter of perspective, sweetling,” Petyr said, kneeling in front of her, a hand on each of her knees. They were warm (one slightly wet from her mouth, the other from her cunt). “For instance, the world looks much different from down here.” He looked up, his hands slowly prying her legs apart. 

              Sansa knew what he was seeing, but humored him regardless. “And what do you see from your ever-insightful perspective, my lord?”

              Petyr dramatically lowered his eyes down to observe the familiar sight. His tongue poked through closed lips, as if struggling to taste her. His restraint was unparalleled. “A lovely wet cunt, waiting to be devoured, my lady.”

              Sansa snapped her legs closed. Petyr only chuckled, gently pushing them apart again. She didn’t resist. 

              Slowly, her foot stopped  _ taptaptapping _ . “What do you make of Jon using the Dragon Queen? Is it that, or her using him?”

              Petyr shrugged. “Jon may be lost to his desires, that isn’t something to be dismissed. Mostly on account of there not having been a pretty women at the Wall, or in the whole of the North until we arrived.” He rested his cheek against her inner knee, staring up at her from a familiar position. Petyr’s hand traveled up and down the length of her shin, feigning off goose-pimples. 

              “Surely there is some sense in the boy’s head,” he continued. “Dragons are powerful weapons, and the Targaryen who controls them — however wild and reckless — would not be someone to cross. Though pulling the rug from her announcing he has no actual control over the North — that  _ you _ do, and would never relinquish it — would be in bad taste.”

              “So we should just ignore the problem altogether?”

              “Not ignore. Just...conveniently forget it exists,” he said with a wave of his hand. As though the treacherous map of politics was trivial. “So long as it isn't the first thing out of her mouth when she arrives, I imagine we won’t burn alive so soon.”

              Sansa pursed her lips. She wished they weren't all coming together. If only she could grab Jon alone for a few moments and understand what his intention was — whether he truly did hand over their birthright (hers, really).; whether he planned to use her, or reveal she was using him. Whether he really loved that woman. 

              “Now, Sansa,” Petyr interrupted her train of thought. “WIll you continue asking questions of me, or will you allow me a moment’s peace to break my fast?”

_ There’s time for all that later, I suppose _ . 

              Sansa smiled as innocently as she could, a feat practiced well enough. She tilted her head, tucking her tongue between her lips. Sweeter than the massive lemoncake he constructed for her out of every lemon in Westeros (or so he liked to brag), she answered, “Of course, father. I wouldn’t be so remiss to do such a thing.” Sansa spread her legs wider, pushing her hips forward. Her desire filled the air. “Eat as much as you like.”

              Petyr's nostrils flared.

              Sansa leaned back in her chair, draping one arm over the back and the other gesturing to the board piled with simple fruits and bread Petyr had no intention of consuming. As if to say,  _ Go ahead and do your worst _ .

_ Gladly _ , his eyes responded.

              Petyr held her legs apart and began softly. Nipping his way up her inner thighs with bits so gentle she could be imagining them. His tongue lapped over where his teeth had been, smoothing over injuries that weren’t there. Inch by inch he went, not caring how much the anticipation was killing Sansa.

              When he was but a finger’s breadth away from her core, Petyr pulled back and started the climb over up her other leg. Sansa bit back her disapproval. The fault was hers (even if Petyr had been stoking her all morning). 

              Perhaps it was her impatience, but Petyr’s mouth climbed quicker than the previous leg. His hands spread her legs further, wrapping around her knees. Closer and closer his lips were. Close enough Sansa could feel the heat of his mouth on her lower lips. She could hardly curl her toes any further. Anticipation made her scent headier. 

              He pulled, hard, Sansa’s ass barely on the edge of her chair. She grasped for purchase on the table, knocking over a goblet and sending spears of fruit flying onto the stones. 

              His tongue was inside her, not at all as gentle as his kisses had been. Devouring up all of her built-up lust — like a man who had not food nor drink for weeks, afraid he’d never taste something so sweet again — and proving there was an endless supply of it. Sansa tried to find a rhythm in it. She did, only for Petyr to suck her clit and throw her off.

              Sansa grit her teeth.  _ He’s never wicked the same way twice _ . “Careful, Lord Baelish, you wouldn’t want to—  _ ah _ , spill your porridge upon the floor.”

              He flicked her clit one last time before pulling his face back, lips gleaming in the early-morning light. A proof of her wantonness, yet it brought no roil of shame to Sansa’s stomach as it once used to. If anything it sent a spark between her legs. 

              Petyr lazily licked her come off. He gave her a crooked smile. “My apologies, my lady. I’m sure it shan’t happen again.”

_ Except it will _ , he didn’t finish.

              Petyr latched onto her cunt again, tongue slower than before. He’d gotten his reaction from Sansa, and now was the time to  _ enjoy _ the feast presented before him. It was like the kisses now, slow and gentle. His tongue hardly finished stroking the length of her before he was doing it again. She rocked her hips, and at some point, his strokes were following her lead instead.

              Sansa wanted to lose her fingers in the softness of his hair, but her position was precarious enough. Worse so when Petyr draped one of her legs over his shoulder. His free hand snaked beneath her gown, grazing fingertips along her side: one up, two down, over and over in time with his tongue: up, down, again. 

              His touches were never an accident. Petyr must have awoken one day with the world’s knowledge in  _ how to please a woman _ , a boon from the gods. Sansa had little other experience, between Joffrey groping her, serving boys trying to touch her ass or breasts when she walked past, and her once-husband Harry (who passed out tired or drunk before he managed much). None of those boys ever intended to make Sansa  _ feel good _ . Men whispered too often about what they would take, what they would force onto the women.

              Petyr only ever  _ suggested _ things, with sharp words and sly hands. Kisses he took, yes, that wasn’t to be denied. But lest neither of them forget who it was that acted on a mix of suggestion and sexual curiosity first.

              Would she still be sweet and innocent without having been whisked away by him to the Vale? Perhaps. 

              At the moment, though, with a man’s head between her legs and her breathing ragged, Sansa could not say she wanted to be that same child who dreamt of summer songs and gallant knights.

              This wicked man was a blessing and a curse.

              A curse, especially now, as his tongue remained steadfast in pace and pressure. She rocked herself against him, faster, pushing against his mouth. But her body craved  _ more _ before it would release her from her lustful demons.

              Begging was reserved for worse acts. So Sansa prayed she wouldn’t fall as she hoisted her second leg up and over onto his opposite shoulder. Petyr looked up at her as best he could, his tongue lapping over her clit. 

              “I hope you aren’t a man of big promises, Lord Baelish” she managed before leaning forward and digging her fingers into his hair for purchase. Her ass was not even an inch on the chair, and Sansa could feel the cold stones kissing her toes.

              Oh, this was  _ much better _ .

              He breath hitched the first roll of her hips, and Sansa couldn’t stop her body if she wanted. Petyr’s hands wrapped around her thighs, nails scratching her skin as he ate and ate. Her hands roamed to the back of his head, pushing his face deeper into her cunt. If he means to have her — again and again — then perhaps Petyr wouldn’t balk at dying with her taste following him into death.

              He fell back onto his shins, Sansa’s feet touching stones. She wrapped them around him, instead, determined not to release Petyr until he gave her what he bragged to do.

              As though he would.

              She felt one of his hands snaking across her skin, nails scratching skin and thigh the way she was doubled over his face. It found its destination finally, fingers dipping just above his tongue.

              “Oh— f—" Sansa bit her lower lip, 

_ I may talk big promises, sweetling _ , she could hear him saying, were his mouth not heavily occupied.  _ But you of all people should know I never see things half done. Least of all when you’re about to come on my tongue like the wanton little whore you really are. _

              Sansa knew she wasn’t going to last much longer. Her hips were losing rhythm, focused on finding the release and nothing else. This was all the existed: herself, and the man nestled between her thighs.

_ And you aren’t ashamed, are you? _ he continued.  _ Taken like this in your very quarters, again and again, by the man who has ruined far more than you could ever imagine _ .

              His finger pulled out of her cunt enough to toy with her clit instead. Sansa sucked in a breath. So close. Her thighs squeezed tighter.

_ Harry never made you come like this, did he, sweetling? _

              Sansa shook her head.

_ I thought not. None of the boys you played with as my daughter ever made your cunt ache with the emptiness of their fingers or their tongue, did they? It was never their fingers or their cocks you thought about late at night whilst I was away, was it? _

              “N-no.” It came out breathy it might as well have been a gasp.

_ Instead, your sweet little cunt is wet for me. So wet I could dive in and drown before reaching the bottom _ .

              Sansa’s breath hitched. Just there, just there, so close.

_ So close, what would happen if I stop?  _

              “Pl—" she cried out. It was the best she could manage.

_ Well, when you beg so sweetly for me, how could I deny you? Come for me, Sansa. And only me. _

              She obeyed his unspoken words. Her body freezing as her release flooded her body to the very tips of her toes, filling her with lightness and nothingness. Flooding Petyr’s mouth with all she could give him.

              It was heady, this feeling. Something she knew she could never get enough of, not when Petyr gave it to her so fantastically she could not dream it as well as the real thing. Her fingers ached as she let go, slowly, of his head. Her thighs, too, hurt wrapped around him as though she were trying to absorb his very essence into her.

              Instead, Sansa just wanted his tongue as deep as it could go. 

              Her ass touched the chair before she opened her eyes. The world always looked a little brighter after she came, and sounded sweeter (though there were no birds singing just outside the windows). 

              Petyr was still kneeled on the floor beneath her, his face flushed. His fingers grazed gently against her swollen lips. Forefinger swiping down the length of her slit before taking it into his mouth. 

              When he saw she returned, Petyr pulled away from her thighs, his hands reaching up for her neck. “Won’t you give this a try, my lady. It’s rather sweet, and I’d hate to take the last bite.” He pulled her head down, kissing her. His mouth was soaking with her desire. Only the barest hint of fruit remained on his tongue beneath the salt. 

              Sansa’s neck ached bent like this, but she couldn’t get enough of Petyr’s lips. They were soft against hers, and very wet with her desire. The scent of her was so sharp she couldn’t find Petyr’s.

              They sat like that for a minute, two, however long it took for Sansa’s body to return from wherever it had been, settling along her bones.

              “You’re right, my lord,” she said when he pulled away. Sansa let loose a long breath, wondering if — and when — her heart would slow down. “It is sweet. Though perhaps I should have a try of this instead.”

              It was the least she could do for him, though Sansa would be lying if the thrill in having someone so on the edge and under her control was intoxicating. She understood Petyr just a little bit more each time she took him in her mouth).

              “Perhaps.” He held onto her hand. “However, our discussions have made us forgetful of the time, my lady.”

              The nail fell from the candle burning on the chest of drawers by the door, marking the hour up. (they learned many moons ago to place it there, rather than on the table with the food. They moved the table so its shadow hid the scorch mark). It was luck for the nail to fall just then. Although, Sansa wouldn’t dismiss Petyr’s knack for  _ dramatics _ as being part of it, too, somehow.

              He bent in for one final lick before falling back on his knees. Slowly, he wiped her remaining desire from his lips with his tongue, circling twice as though to keep from wasting any. Sweeter than the finest Arbor gold, he said once, and he acted it each time. Savoring even the last errant drop. Petyr undoubtedly was a shameless man, and yet Sansa couldn’t stop him. Didn’t  _ want _ to stop him. 

              “Come now, my lady. The rabble awaits.” Petyr helped Sansa up from the table, gently guiding her to her wardrobe where the finer of her gowns Petyr bought her back at the Eyrie were put aside for the warmer dresses the North required. There was an ache in his mossy eyes when she reached for a plain, thick wool gown. Sansa saw it each time she donned familiar greys and muted blues, brown fur-lined cuffs and collar. He returned from White Harbor with a single dress and some jewelry for her; a modest gift, but cloth was sparser now with winter come. 

_ That, and he cannot buy me nice things without the smallfolk thinking there is more going on between us _ .

              Or, without the smallfolk  _ knowing _ there was something more going on. Surely they whispered, as all people were wont to do. Surely the Lord Baelish advising Sansa each morning and evening — in her solar, alone — hadn’t gone unnoticed. Bronze Yohn was in attendance in Winterfell still, though his chambers where in the guest tower. He said it was the snows keeping him from returning to the Vale and his duties there. Sansa thanked him for staying, though she knew he meant to catch them in the act. 

              A good thing she was well-practiced in keeping quiet (both in secrets, and in the throes of her release). One of many lessons brought down from the Eyrie along with those rich dresses whose cut showed far more skin than the thick wool she donned now. She adjusted the fur at her wrists.

              “How large a feast can we manage without harming our long-term supply?”

              “Smaller than what dragons require, but well enough for humans.” He was at her back without asking, pulling her hair free from her collar as they both worked with finger-combs to rid the tangles. A simple pleat did wonders to hide wild hair. 

              “She has the three dragons. And how many people?”

              “Sources vary. Some find the Dothraki to count as two or three men alone. A few hundred, no more than a thousand.”

              And where was her half-brother expecting to quarter all those people? And where was the food to come from to feed them? And clothes and weapons? 

              Her brother might have led the Night's Watch, but Sansa knew that was a far cry from running a territory. “I see.”

              “A thousand men on  _ your _ side, at least,” Petyr added, as though that would help the growing anxiety that Jon's missive brought. His fingers finished their tour of her hair, tying off the braid with a simple grey ribbon with a stamped wolf at its center. A simple gift he bought her (far simpler than anything else. Aside from Winterfell, it was one of her favorites).

              Sansa turned around, finding Petyr dressed in the doublet and breeches he’d unceremoniously discarded last night. He was working his own fingers through his hair, creating as good a part as he could. It was still unusual, finding wrinkles in the wool where once he’d be caught dead with a loose thread. Sansa bit back a smile.

              “Something the matter, my lady?”

              She shook her head. “Nothing, Lord Baelish. Well, yes.” She twirled the too short curls of hair framing her face around her finger, tighter and tighter before letting go. As good as she was going to get. “But... Should Jon  _ have _ offered Winterfell?”

              Petyr inspected his doublet, picking off specks of dust only he could see. He licked his teeth beneath closed lips. “A foolish endeavor.”

              “Yes, but—"

              "—but you and I have fared worse, sweetling. Should we look at his perspective, perhaps it was the only choice he had. Perhaps she coerced him: the North for his life, or for  _ your _ life. Perhaps not. We won't know if we remain in your chambers discussing theories. A game can neither be played nor won by staring at the board thinking what you’d wish to do. And besides, we must make sure they arrive with a warm welcome.”

              He said it as though he'd wish nothing of a warm welcome to them. Except they were bringing dragons, and neither Petyr nor Sansa cared to be food to monsters.

              “Shall we go?” she said, knowing what else remained of this conversation was for the night. If anything, Sansa hoped speaking with the smallfolk would ease her mind (a different method than what Petyr preferred, but also effective). Not once had Petyr’s spies reported rumors that they wished Jon would return to replace her. She was a Stark, she was leading Winterfell and the North. She would see them through to the other side of the Winter and the dead. 

_ They love me.  _ The thought sent a warm flutter through her stomach.

              They approached the heavy door, glancing behind that nothing was too amiss. Petyr had picked up the fruits from the floor, mopping up spilled cider as best he could. Visually, they did nothing more but discuss politics over breakfast. 

              Gossip was well enough, but Sansa would prefer not to give her people undeniable  _ proof _ that she was being led astray by a man who set the world into ruin (though they knew not of that. He was merely a Southroner who knew how to manage their accounts well enough that stores were constantly flowing in and not out).

              One of the many magicks Petyr Baelish could perform.

              “Besides, Lady Sansa,” he whispered into her ear as she passed him through the door. The guards stepped aside, nodding at their council's end. Sansa smiled a  _ Good morning _ , to them. “We best make sure you prove the North belongs to no one but you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Ya so I forgot how much fun writing canon-verse (or canon-adjacent) is. And might have got a little carried away with all the talk of politics and the like, but I hope you all liked it!! :)
> 
> And if you couldn't tell I've blatantly ignored some things from the show. Because I can. Also because they’re so dumb they basically didn’t happen right]


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